marta's daughter

Lafayette- Letter (Part One)

Requested by @fabulositylevel80, who is an absolute angel and had the best idea which was “…readerxLafayette fic with 352 (“I’ve loved you for years.”) in which the reader has like this rendezvous romance while Laf was fighting in the revolution but then returned to his life (and wife) in France only to come back years later after his wife passed away to get the reader back and she has a kid that is his.” I really hope you like it, I think it’s terrible, and I hope this is along the lines of what you asked for. -Capt. Cici

Warnings: Reference to sex, reader goes into labor, prompt being used in part two, sad ending you’ll see what it is, very terrible writing, kinda long


“You know, I think that you fighting as an American revolutionary is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“So you’ve said.”

You and your husband laughed. It was late, and you weren’t supposed to outside, but you would do anything so that you could see Gilbert for some time.

“When does your boat leave again?” You asked, leaning into Gilbert as the two of you looked at the stars.

“At four in the morning.” Lafayette answered sadly, looking at your feet.

“Then, Gilbert, I stay with you until four in the morning. Come, let’s go find something to do for the next three hours.” You responded, pulling his hand. Lafayette could only get a few days away from the colonies, and most of those days were spent with him traveling to and from France. You had to meet in certain areas at a certain time because you weren’t allowed away from your house.

You two giggled in the shadows before Lafayette decided that you should get into a hotel until he had to leave. “We are married.” He said cheekily. “We can get alone in a room and take off our clothes without anyone caring.”

When the time came for Lafayette to board the ship, you tearfully said your goodbyes and scurried back to your mother’s house, with your older sister, Marta waiting at the door, frowning.

“He’s not worth this, Y/N. He clearly doesn’t care about you. You see him once every six months at least, and now look. You’re dying-”

“Marta.” Came your mother’s stern voice, calling both of you to bed.

Two months later you realized that you were pregnant. Panicking, you decided not to tell Lafayette until he came back on his next leave from the American war.

It took you six months to realize that he wouldn’t be coming back until the end of the war.

“It comes soon, my love. Within the next three months, I will be home, and I will have you in my arms again. I long to hear your voice, and I know that once I am with you again I will not be separated.” Lafayette wrote in a letter. You sighed and hugged the parchment to your chest, loving the paper that your husband’s warm hand once ran over.

Nine months quickly passed, and it was with Marta’s pleas that you went into labor.

“Y/N, you have to tell him. Please, write Gilbert a letter, explaining-”

“No! He will find out when he gets home. I will be waiting by the harbor with our baby, and will tell him about everything myself.” You choked out, gripping onto your bed frame and the chair next to the bed. The pain was unbearable, and you realized that your illness was making you weaker.

“Get me some parchment and a quill, Marta. Write down what I say, please.” You sobbed, pain ripping through you.

“What do I write?” Marta asked, sitting down next to you. You cried and screamed, but the letter was finished within the hour, your words only interrupted as your daughter came into the world.

“You’ll give it to him, right?” You whispered, desperately trying to hold on to your life. “When he returns. And then show him our daughter. Marta, promise me that Gilbert will receive my letter!”

“He will, my love. Do you have a name? For the baby.” Marta promised, taking the baby from your arms after you placed a kiss on her head.

“Colette.” You whispered, closing your eyes. “Marta, tell Gilbert that I loved him more than the moon loved the stars.”

You kissed your sister’s hand and Colette’s forehead before giving your last breath.

“You’re lovely, but you’re empty,” he went on. “One couldn’t die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she’s the one I put under glass. Since she’s the one I sheltered behind a screen. Since she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three for butterflies). Since she’s the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she’s my rose.” - Le Petit Prince